Ian Rankin - Exit Music

'A man left the bar here a couple of nights back, got as far as King's Stables Road, and was beaten to death. Means the last people who saw him were the ones knocking back cocktails in

your hotel.' Rebus had taken a step closer to Richard Browning.

'Now, I can get my hands on your registration list and make sure I interview every single guest – maybe set up a big table next to the concierge desk so that it's nice and public…' Rebus paused. 'I can do that, but it'll take time and it'll be messy. Or…' Another pause.

Tfou can tell me what Russians you have staying here.'

Tou could also,' Clarke added, 'go through the bar receipts and find the names of anyone who paid for a large cognac some time after ten on the night before last.'

'Our guests have the right to their privacy,' Browning argued. 'We only want names,' Rebus told him, 'not a list of whatever porn they've been watching on the film channel.'

Browning stiffened his spine.

'Okay,' Rebus apologised, 'this isn't that sort of hotel. But you do have some Russians staying here?'

Browning admitted as much with a nod. Tou know there's a delegation in town?' Rebus assured him he did. 'To be honest, we only have three or four of them. The rest are spread around the city – the Balmoral, George, Sheraton, Prestonfield…'

'Don't they get along?' Clarke asked.

'Just not enough presidential suites to go round,' Browning sniffed.

'How much longer are they here?'

'A few days – there's a trip to Gleneagles planned, but they're keeping their rooms, saves checking out and checking in again.'

'Nice to have the option,' Rebus commented. 'How soon can we have the names?'

'I'm going to have to talk to the general manager first.'

'How soon?' Rebus repeated.

'I really can't say,' Browning spluttered. Clarke handed him a card with her mobile number.

'Sooner the better,' she nudged him.

'Else it'll be a table by the concierge,' Rebus added.

They left Browning nodding to himself and staring at the floor.

The doorman saw them coming and held open the door. Rebus handed him one of the lurid flyers by way of a tip. As they crossed to Clarke's car – which she'd parked in an empty cab rank – Rebus saw a limo drawing to a halt, the black Merc from the City Chambers and the same figure emerging from the back: Sergei Andropov.

Again, he seemed to sense eyes on him, and returned Rebus's stare for a moment before entering the hotel. The car cruised around the corner and entered the hotel's car park.

'Same driver Stahov had?' Clarke asked.

'Still didn't get a good enough look,' Rebus told her. 'But that reminds me of something meant to ask when we were inside – namely, what the hell is a respectable hotel like the Caledonian doing letting Big Ger Cafferty over its threshold?'

They waited until 6 p.m. to do the witness interviews, reckoning there'd be a better chance of finding people at home. Roger and Elizabeth Anderson lived in a detached 1930s house on the southern edge of the city with views to the Pentland Hills. The path leading through the garden to the front door was lit, allowing them to take in the impressive rockeries and an expanse of lawn which could well have been trimmed with nail scissors.

'A little hobby for Mrs Anderson?' Clarke guessed.

'Who knows – maybe she's the high-flyer and he stays at home.'

But when Roger Anderson opened the door he was dressed in his work suit, the tie loosened and top shirt-button undone. He held the evening paper in one hand, and had pushed his reading glasses to the top of his head.

'Oh, it's you,' he said. 'Wondered when you'd get round to us.' He headed back indoors, expecting them to follow. 'It's the police,' he called to his wife. Rebus gave her a smile when she arrived from the kitchen.

'See you've not put the wreath up yet,' he said, gesturing towards the front door.

'She had me throw it in the bin,' Roger Anderson said, using the remote to turn off the TV.

'We're about to sit down to dinner,' his wife pointed out.

This won't take long,' Clarke assured her. She'd brought a folder with her. PCs Todd Goodyear and Bill Dyson had typed up their initial notes. Goodyear's were immaculate, Dyson's riddled with spelling mistakes. 'It wasn't you who actually found the body, was it?' Clarke asked.

Elizabeth Anderson had taken a few more steps into the room,

standing just behind her husband's chair, the chair Roger Anderson was sinking back into without bothering to ask if either detective would like to sit. Rebus, however, was happier standing – it meant he could cruise the room, taking it all in. Mr Anderson had laid his newspaper down on the coffee table next to a crystal tumbler of what smelled like three parts gin to one of tonic.

'We heard the girl screaming,' the man was saying, 'went over to see what was happening. Thought she'd been attacked or something.'

'You were parked…' Clarke pretended to be scouring the notes.

'In the Grassmarket,' Mr Anderson stated.

'Why there, sir?' Rebus broke in.

'Why not there?'

'Just seems a fair walk from the church. You were at a carol service, yes?'

'That's right.'

'Bit early in the year for it?'

'The Christmas lights go on next week.'

'It finished pretty late, didn't it?'

'We had a spot of supper afterwards.' Anderson sounded indignant that any questions at all needed to be asked of him.

'You didn't think to use the multistorey?'

'Closes at eleven – wasn't sure we'd be back at the car by then.'

Rebus nodded. “You know the place then? Know its opening hours?'

'I've used it in the past. Thing is, the Grassmarket doesn't cost anything after six thirty.'

'Got to be careful with the pennies, sir,' Rebus agreed, looking around the large, well-furnished room. 'It says in the notes you work in…?'

'I'm on the staff at First Albannach.'

Rebus nodded again, pretending not to be surprised. Dyson hadn't actually bothered to make a note of Anderson 's profession.

'You're bloody lucky to find me home so early,' Anderson went on. 'Been hellish busy recently.'

'Do you happen to know someone called Stuart Janney?'

'Met him many times… Look, what's any of this got to do with the poor sod who died?'

'Probably nothing at all, sir,' Rebus admitted. 'We just like to build up as full a picture as possible.'

'Another reason we park in the Grassmarket,' Elizabeth Anderson said, voice not much above a whisper, 'is that it's well lit, and there

are always people about. We're very careful that way.'

'Didn't stop you taking a scary route to get there,' Clarke pointed out. 'That time of night, King's Stables Road 's pretty well deserted.'

Rebus was peering at a selection of framed photographs in a cabinet. Tou on your wedding day,' he mused.

'Twenty-seven years ago,' Mrs Anderson confirmed.

'And is this your daughter?' He knew the answer already: half a dozen photos time-lined the girl's life.

'Deborah. She'll be home from college next week.'

Rebus nodded slowly. Seemed to him that the most recent pictures were half hidden behind framed memories of a gap-toothed infant and schoolgirl. 'I see she's been going through a Goth stage.'

Meaning the hair suddenly turning jet black, the heavily kohled eyes.

'Again, Inspector,' Roger Anderson interceded, 'I don't see what possible bearing any of this…”

Rebus waved the objection aside. Clarke looked up from the notes she'd been pretending to read.

'I know it's a stupid question,' she said with a smile, 'but you've had time to think back over everything, so is there anything you can add? You didn't see anyone else, or hear anything?'

'Nothing,' Mr Anderson stated.